<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Le festin est sur mon chemin by howbadcanmyficsbe</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898306">Le festin est sur mon chemin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe'>howbadcanmyficsbe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Lonely Thief Is Sad To Feed [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Jean Valjean, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Health Inspector Javert, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Post-Seine, Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:15:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bienvenu Food Truck. Javert taps his pen on the work order, contemplating the name. He rolls it over in his mind, trying to pin down the trace of familiarity. The name of the owner—Jean Valjean—stirs something vague in his memory, but, along with the name of the restaurant, he cannot place it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Javert/Jean Valjean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Lonely Thief Is Sad To Feed [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079804</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. À sauter les repas, je suis habitué</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yeah I'm using the Ratatouille song for the title. And the chapter titles. What of it. </p><p>I think at this point I should really be calling this a collaboration between me and Claire (@polygunndust on Twitter). Since the beginning of quarantine times I've been babbling about this, so it's time. Please ignore the multiple WIPs I now have, I'm trying 🙏</p><p>Content warning: The M rating is for discussion of suicidal ideation in chapter two and brief, mild sexual content in the final chapter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bienvenu Food Truck<em>. </em> Javert taps his pen on the work order, contemplating the name. He rolls it over in his mind, trying to pin down the trace of familiarity. The name of the owner—Jean Valjean—stirs something vague in his memory, but, along with the name of the restaurant, he cannot place it. All he knows is that there have been several complaints from tourists about the cleanliness of the food truck. </p><p>The desktop in front of him is agonizingly slow, churning away as it tries to load a simple website. He pushes down the urge to hit the computer, remembering that this one is actually faster than the last one the department gave him. So he sits back in his chair uneasily, waiting for the food truck schedule to finally tell him where he should find the Bienvenu today. </p><p>The afternoon sun is hot, as per usual. Near unbearable humidity is a hallmark of home for Javert, but he can never seem to get used to it. He tugs at his collar as he drives, cranking up the air conditioning in his car, unfortunately in desperate need of repair that he will not have the money to fund for another two months. At the very least his hair is tied up, as always, neatly into a bun and away from his neck. Little difference it makes though; he can already feel sweat building on the back of his neck, on the small of his back. </p><p>The parking spot for the Bienvenu today is in an area of town filled with not only tourists, but also with what the tourists might call undesirables. Not an uncommon sight in New Orleans, to see people begging outside restaurants where people have just paid for food and have pocket change at the ready. It’s a strategy Javert was once well familiar with. It takes him far too long to find a parking spot, circling the block several times in a heat-induced, mild case of road rage. By the time he steps out of his car, he already feels the need to change his undershirt. </p><p>Now that the lunch rush has died down, only a few stragglers stand around the window to the truck, waiting for their orders. The truck itself, not unlike most food trucks, is loud and garish. In fact, it may be the most visually assaulting truck Javert has seen in recent memory—and he has inspected his fair share. A mass of sunflower yellow is difficult to miss, even in the sea of bright colors on the streets of New Orleans. </p><p>As he approaches, a pair of arms appear in the window. Gloved: a good sign so far. Then the rest of a man pops out of the truck, leaning down to hand a couple two takeout containers. He waves them off and looks up, leaning on the window with an easy smile. Not quite easy exactly—there is something mask-like about it, not quite the same mask as a practiced customer service smile. </p><p>“What can I get you, sir?”</p><p>Only when Javert steps under the awning does he get a better look at his face. He looks far too young to have white hair, but his mop of snowy curls is tied up safely in a bandana. Another good sign. HIs frame is wide, but strong, and his arms may as well be tree trunks straining under his rolled sleeves. This shouldn’t be a detail relevant to Javert’s needs, but he notes it all the same. He is suddenly aware again of the sweat pooling on his back. This damn weather. </p><p>“A look inside the truck, if you could,” Javert says, holding up his badge. “Are you the owner?”</p><p>The man takes a long hard look at his badge, moving his gaze back and forth between Javert and the tiny picture of him in his hand. He squints for a moment and looks at Javert as if he expects him to say something more. When Javert does not, he lifts his head again. </p><p>“I am,” he says, holding out his hand. “Jean Valjean, a pleasure to have you, Inspector…”</p><p>“Javert,” he finishes, ignoring Valjean’s outstretched hand. Instead he goes to pull a clipboard and pen from his satchel as Valjean’s arm falls limply. </p><p>“Well,” Valjean says, “I’ll open up the back. Come on around.”</p><p>Taking a few notes, Javert walks around to the back of the truck where Valjean, and only Valjean, stands at the open door. Before anything else can come to mind, he is hit with a litany of savory smells he cannot begin to name or parse. Southern comfort is not an uncommon theme for restaurants in the city, but this particular truck brings up old memories Javert is unwilling to delve too deeply into at the moment. </p><p>The first thing that strikes him as he takes the steps up into the truck is how much shorter Valjean is than him, and the second is how low the ceiling is. Javert has always been tall, but somehow the Bienvenu feels even more lacking in space. He can feel himself craning his neck down as he begins to check the premises, asking clipped questions and taking orderly notes on his clipboard. A small radio plays in the corner; old jazz. The space feels utterly too confining, and he startles himself by even contemplating that it exudes loneliness. </p><p>To his surprise—and frustration, he admits—there is nothing he can fault him for. He scours the kitchen, the cookware, the pantry, the fridge. It all seems spotless, in complete order and sufficiently to code. Far surpassing it, even. Still he cannot shake the strange feeling that sits in the pit of his stomach looking at Valjean. The man seems far too nervous for someone with such an impeccable kitchen. It was not apparent at first, but he can feel the tension radiating from Valjean’s shoulders, his stance. Subtle, but all too obvious to anyone paid to be as observant as Javert. </p><p>“Anything else I can do, Inspector?”</p><p>Javert looks up from his notes and studies him for a scarce moment. Taking a final look around, he clicks his pen and deposits it back in his shirt pocket. The heat of the range and the confinement of the truck has him sweating even more, and he finds himself eager to leave both the truck and Valjean’s expectant stare. </p><p>“You’ll be getting a call if anything is a problem,” he says gruffly. </p><p>“My offer still stands, though,” Valjean adds. </p><p>Javert stiffens. “Offer?”</p><p>“For lunch. Late lunch, at this point. I could fix you up a plate to go-”</p><p>“It’s not necessary to bribe me, sir,” Javert hisses. </p><p>Valjean blanches immediately. “It’s not my intention to. Just thought you might want-“</p><p>“No, thank you,” Javert says, already turning on his heel and bending to exit the truck. He stops at the end of the steps and swiftly pulls out a business card from his bag and holds it out. “Just so you have my information.”</p><p>Standing at the edge of the doorway, Valjean takes the card. He thinks for a moment and seems to remember something. “Wait here a second,” he says, shuffling back into the truck. Javert waits until Valjean returns with what looks like a dusty business card of his own. </p><p>“Ah,” Javert says, somewhat warily. </p><p>“The truck schedule is usually online but, you know that already I guess,” he says. Still there is an edge of worry to him, buries under several layers of something else Javert cannot quite pin. “What I mean to say is, feel free to come back any time.”</p><p>“If you play your cards right, you shouldn’t hope to see me again,” Javert says. “You have a good afternoon Mr. Valjean.”</p><p>He walks away then, the smell of hush puppies not quite leaving him until he slams the door to his car shut. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It isn’t long before a work order shows up on his desk for the Bienvenu<em> . </em>He scowls at Valjean’s business card, turning it over in his hand. The memory is just shy now of coming to him, like a burner about to light. He waits for the snapping lighter to stop, for the flames to come alive and illuminate the fuzzy recollection. </p><p>Again, the weather is far too hot to be sitting in his car like this. He sighs, once again slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking to the food truck parked not far away. </p><p>“Back so soon?” Valjean asks. He looks oddly resigned, as if expecting bad news. </p><p>“Looking that guilty isn’t helping your case,” Javert says. He starts to open his mouth again to speak, but Valjean gestures that he move aside as a customer walks up to the window. </p><p>A woman walks up, asking for a po’ boy; Valjean obliges, popping back in the truck for a few short minutes before returning with the sandwich. In the meantime, Javert sizes the woman up. She clearly knows Valjean by the way she carries herself around the truck, the comfortable way she smiles. Clearly, Javert notices, she is homeless, and he quickly wonders if she even has the money to pay. </p><p>But then Valjean is handing her the sandwich with that easy, guarded smile, and she cheerily walks away. It takes Javert several moments of looking back and forth between them for him to form any words. </p><p>“Did you intend to let that woman rob you?”</p><p>“She hasn’t taken anything I wouldn’t give freely,” Valjean says, shrugging. “It’s hot out today, probably hard to be out asking for money.”</p><p>Javert gives him a disdainful, hard look, before taking out his clipboard. “Well <em> I </em>am here to work for a living today.”</p><p>“Right,” Valjean says, leaning down on the windowsill. “What have I done this time, then?”</p><p>“We’ve received another complaint about the state of the premises,” Javert says neutrally, flipping through his notes. </p><p>“Hm,” Valjean says. “In regards to what? I can’t say the kitchen has changed much since the last time, but you’re free to come in.”</p><p>“I’ll make that judgement myself.”</p><p>The kitchen is, as promised, as spotless as the last time. Javert stands in the center of the truck, tapping his pen on his clipboard in irritation. “Do you have your permits?” he asks. </p><p>An alarmed look comes over Valjean’s face; he suddenly looks pale. Even so, he nods and heads to the front of the truck to rummage through the glove box. His eyes are serious as he hands over his papers and uncharacteristically crosses his arms. </p><p>Javert’s eyes scan over the paperwork. Nothing sparks then, nothing that can point him towards a reason to give any sort of citation. He nods sternly and hands the papers back and speaks only as he begins to exit the back of the truck. </p><p>“A word of advice, sir. If you don’t want so many calls I would keep the riff raff away from your truck.”</p><p>“I think I can give food to whoever I like,” Valjean calls after him. “And apart from that, everyone deserves to eat.”</p><p>Javert spins around at that point, looking up at Valjean with wide eyes that certainly betray him. Memories start flooding his mind of a restaurant, a familiar face, a fraudulent loan. An infuriatingly generous owner and a memorable inmate. He cannot even conjure a remark to answer him, and walks back to his car in stunned confusion. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The health inspector does not return for some time. Luckily, it seems like no tourists have made any more calls about homeless people coming to the Bienvenu<em> , </em>but even that is preferable to them calling the police over it. It’s happened before, and will certainly happen again. </p><p>Valjean could tell from the look in his eyes at that moment. If Javert had not remembered before, he surely remembers him now. He supposes it can be easy enough to forget a face after nearly ten years. After all, his hair has turned a shocking shade of white in that time; Valjean can scarcely recognize himself in the mirror when he makes the mistake of looking for too long. </p><p>In any case, Inspector Javert seems driven as ever as he pounces upon one of the food trucks across the way. Valjean and several other trucks have parked on this particular day near a cluster of offices, hoping to catch desk workers at their break. The afternoon is late, and only a few stragglers stand squinting in the sun, deciding where to pick up their exceptionally late lunch. </p><p>Trying to get some marginally fresh air, Valjean leans out the truck window and watches Javert from afar. It looks as if he wrote a couple tickets, handing them over to the clearly distressed owner. He heads over to what must be his car, an old junker of a sedan that looks like it could fall apart any minute. Javert opens the trunk, deposits his bag inside before walking aside and fumbling with something in his hand. A cigarette and lighter, Valjean realizes. He loosens his tie slightly before taking a long drag and leaning on his car. His shoulders droop, and he looks the most relaxed Valjean has ever seen him.</p><p>Before Valjean can catch himself, his eyes go to Javert’s face, staring directly at him. While there is something accusing in his expression, there is also a trace of what Valjean can only call confusion. Curious enough, he waves to Javert, gesturing for him to come over. </p><p>Javert looks around at first, as if assuming Valjean were looking at someone else. Valjean sighs, waving to him again and nodding. With a grimace and another look around, Javert sighs as if defeated and walks across the road. There is no traffic on the side street to speak of, but Javert pointedly goes out of his way to use the crosswalk. </p><p>“Inspector,” Valjean calls as he walks up. “Did you get lunch yet today?”</p><p>The grimace has not quite left Javert’s face as he holds up the cigarette. “You’re looking at it.”</p><p>Valjean feels it’s his own turn to grimace as Javert lets out several neat puffs of smoke. For a moment he thinks they may just stare at one another in silence until Javert suddenly speaks. </p><p>“When did you get the truck, then?”</p><p>At first, Valjean is taken aback. But, of course, he would bring it up now. Now that Javert remembered. “Well,” Valjean starts, “It would have been hard to get another property loan after Madeleine’s closed. The truck seemed like the easiest thing.”</p><p>“To fly under the radar?” Javert says snidely. </p><p>Valjean sighs, leaning more heavily and looking aside. “I asked you over to offer you lunch. Do you want it or not?”</p><p>“Does it look like it?” Javert asks. He takes another drag, looking across the street at the other trucks. Both are silent for a few minutes, and again Javert can hear the soft sound of Valjean’s radio from inside the truck. Javert scowls in the sunlight, crossing his arms. “Why do you bother?”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“With the bums. Why do you bother?”</p><p>“They need a meal, I have a meal. There’s no problem there.”</p><p>“Aside from the money.”</p><p>“That’s no problem either.”</p><p>Javert turns to him slowly with a look of near-righteous anger in his eyes. He turns back ahead swiftly, taking one last inhalation before stamping out his cigarette on the asphalt. </p><p>It takes him several tries to start his car as he leaves. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next time he sees Javert, he is not even in the food truck; their meeting is entirely random. Valjean slows down from his jog, hands on his hips as he breathes deeply and stares at Javert. Again he is smoking, leaning on his parked car and looking out over the river. The spot is isolated, a place Valjean favors for a quiet evening workout. </p><p>“Are you following me?” Javert says dryly. “Trying to take revenge? Push me into the Mississippi?”</p><p>Valjean wipes the sweat from his brow, looking at him, puzzled. “I don’t know what <em> you’re </em> doing here, but— <em> ha— </em> I sometimes— <em> ha— </em> run here-“ he breathes and Javert watches, taking a slow drag. “You know I— <em> ha— </em> I don’t blame you, right?<em>“ </em></p><p>“You don’t blame me for getting Madeleine’s shut down,” he says placidly. Unconvinced, to say the least.</p><p>Exhaling, Valjean runs a hand through his hair. “It was—<em> ha— </em>me that lied to get the loan. You just pointed them in the right direction.” Privately, he muses that no banker would dare give a loan like that to a felon. Something tells him that would be far from what Javert wants to hear. “Whatever. It’s not important.” He exhales. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Of all things, Javert looks furious. Still he does not move to get into his car and drive away. He only looks at the murky water below the cliffside, contemplating for a moment. “I come here to get away from things,” he says, almost to no one in particular. </p><p>“To think?” Valjean supplies. </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Something on your mind?”</p><p>“Listen to me,” Javert says, now staring directly at him with icy eyes. He points at Valjean with his cigarette, fuming. “I worked for everything I have. I started from nothing—<em> less </em>than nothing—and didn’t need any charity to get where I am.”</p><p>“I didn’t say you did-“</p><p>“So I don’t think you’re doing anyone any favors going around giving handouts so people won’t have to help themselves for once.” He finishes off the last of his cigarette, pulling out another and struggling for several moments to catch a light in the wind. Valjean is partly tempted to offer a hand, but he knows it would only provide kindling to the fire. </p><p>“What?” Javert snaps, finally looking at Valjean again.</p><p>It seems pointless right now to convince Javert of anything, and he hardly wants to in the first place. Javert is a shadow of the past, just another damning piece in the convergence of events that forced him to lose his business, to lose his freedom for the second time. Still, Javert is simultaneously so easy to read and so difficult to figure out. Despite it all, though, he knows he should afford him some measure of compassion, however undeserved. It makes him think of himself, young and furious and fresh out of jail. If Myriel could have the patience, Valjean tells himself, then he would at least attempt to do the same. </p><p>He studies Javert, who still looks at him, perhaps expecting him to give some sort of lecture. But it is late in the day, he has his run to finish, and Cosette will be expecting him soon. And, in all honesty, he does not have the patience tonight. </p><p>“…Nothing,” Valjean says. “I’ll see you around.”</p><p>Javert says nothing as Valjean begins to jog again, and only the rushing sound of the Mississippi remains in his ears.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Car rien n'est gratuit dans la vie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, a quick warning for suicidal ideation and discussion of hospitalization in this chapter. </p><p>I'll be updating on a weekly-ish basis. Thank you for your comments and kudos, they mean the world 💕</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Have you considered that it’s <em> you </em> who’s following <em> me</em>?”</p><p>Javert sighs, leaning against the open door frame at the back of the Bienvenu and crossing his arms. “I would love nothing more than to never run into you again,” Javert mutters.</p><p>He hates that they have somehow made a habit of it now; though, the run-ins are partly unavoidable in his line of work. Most food trucks are not as tightly run as Valjean’s, and there is nothing but an abundance of them in the warmer months. </p><p>Javert cannot say why he has taken to spending his smoking breaks, when the opportunity presents itself, in the vicinity of Valjean’s truck. For all the tension between them, he must admit, Valjean is pleasant enough company. It surprises him that Valjean would tolerate, welcome his presence though. But it seems both of them are lonely enough to take advantage of the good—or bad, depending who you ask—fortune. Regardless of what Valjean truly thinks of Javert and their past, he has his own issues with Valjean. </p><p>Each time he comes upon the Bienvenu<em> , </em>a variation of the same ordeal plays out. A vagrant will walk up, have an easy conversation with Valjean, and walk away with a meal free of change. Javert no longer balks at it; he lets his resentment simmer quietly, for the most part. Today, something in this particular act of goodwill has him fiddling restlessly with his cigarette, narrowing his eyes. </p><p>Across the street stands a young teen, no more than thirteen by Javert’s own estimate. His clothes are oversized, clearly secondhand. He scarfs down the contents of the takeout box indiscriminately and slinks off through a crowd of tourists, two other boxes in hand. Javert cannot ignore the fact that he sees himself so clearly in the way he walks, as if trying to will himself into invisibility. It makes him all the more frustrated that he carries several boxes of unearned charity in his hands. </p><p>“Was it necessary to give him all that?”</p><p>“He can’t very well hand out resumes for a job, Javert,” Valjean calls out, busy at the grill. “Cut him some slack.”</p><p>Javert scoffs. “I was out working at fifteen.” He lowers his voice, muttering. “And homeless by eighteen. I think I know what I’m talking about.”</p><p>Suddenly Valjean turns towards Javert with a concerned look on his face. He doesn’t quite seem to know what to say, and retracts his gaze, focusing again on the grill. He waits a moment before he eventually speaks again. </p><p>“...Did you think you’d be doing this?”</p><p>“No.” Javert pauses. “But it’s close enough.” He puts out the last of his cigarette butt on the ground.</p><p>Corrections officer was not his initial dream job. In truth, he cannot say he ever had or ever will have an ideal place of work. Javert stumbled into health inspection like a tortured, gasping fish finding a shallow pool of water. Not so much a career aspiration as a life raft. The ideal job is something that keeps him afloat, pays the rent and keeps him out of jail. Whatever it takes to keep him out of prison, away from what swallowed his entire family.</p><p>And he has worked tirelessly. He was dealt an impossible hand and did the impossible in return; he floats. Precariously, but he floats. Not on dirty money, not on charity, but with his own sweat and penny pinching in a city that still crumbles around him, threatening to wash him away with the rubble. </p><p>He stays quiet for a while, taking out another cigarette and listening to the sound of Valjean’s radio. Today it plays a somber station, old jazz that seems to beg for death in the summer heat. The fryers sizzle on top of the trombone; the atmosphere only adds to Javert’s discontent. He can feel himself close to boiling over, liable to set the pavement on fire as he taps his foot, agitated. Again he feels the need to give voice to the discomfort itching at him.</p><p>“Was one meal not enough?”</p><p>Valjean doesn’t look at him as he calls back. “He has a couple younger brothers,” he sighs. “Let him be.”</p><p>Javert opens his mouth then, intending to argue about the existence of any supposed younger brothers and stops himself upon seeing Valjean’s expression turn towards him. Most times Valjean puts up a face of calm, never quite looking happy or bothered by much of anything. He is impassive, a picture of stoicism in the face of conflict. Now his face is contorted into something new. Not exasperation or resignation he has seen from him before; this is undiluted disappointment. Somehow it feels even more pointed—disappointment in not just Javert’s decisions but in Javert himself. </p><p>Guilt begins to pool in his stomach, and it feels as though a wound, so old and scarred over, has suddenly opened up, spurting fresh blood. He feels ill—could it be the humidity? Poising his cigarette at the edge of his mouth, he loosens his tie a bit; perhaps it’s only the heat radiating from the Bienvenu. Even though Valjean has quietly turned back to the grill, he can still feel his stare digging into that old injury, infecting him and putting it on track to fester. </p><p>He does not give a parting word to Valjean as he leaves, the heat never quite leaving the back of his neck. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There are whispers of it among the other agents and the secretaries at the office. Javert is not one for gossip, but the reality of this particular rumor is almost impossible to avoid. Not to mention, the cubicle walls are not nearly thick enough to muffle the sound of his coworkers talking anxiously about the proposed budget cuts. </p><p>Aside from his short stint working as a correctional officer, Javert has held fast in his government position. It seemed less precarious, in a way, to be working at a place with more job security than most, no whims of the stock market to let him be laid off without warning. Never mind that he could never exactly advance in his workplace. His salary is locked, and this is the highest post he can hope to obtain with no college degree. So he sits in a predictable stasis, content to simply float by and do his job well. </p><p>What he did not expect was the current wave of deregulation. At first, it seemed the cuts to the Health Department would not reach him, but now the rumors swirl around him like a steadily multiplying storm of mosquitos, intent on draining him. The matter of it is inescapable; his job may very well be in jeopardy. </p><p>This fact looms over his head like an unrelenting cloud as he goes from school to restaurant to bar. The weeks droll on and he asks for more assignments away from food trucks, taking every precaution to keep from having to stand under Valjean’s stare again. Even the thought of it is intolerable; he sees it when he closes his eyes at night. That, or the image of a preteen boy far too thin—how much he resembles the image in Javert’s mirror a lifetime ago. </p><p>Javert’s frozen microwave meals feel all the more unpalatable at night. In the first few weeks, he can barely stomach half the dinner before boxing it up or throwing it away. The mere act of throwing away food is enough to make him ill; an impossible choice stands before him. Selfishly eat the food he has little right to, or throw away his only sustenance like the ingrate he is. So he leans even more on his age-old crutch—cigarettes and coffee—and tries to keep himself from dwelling on the past. He fails. </p><p>When he started living like this is difficult to say. Going to work, sitting in traffic, returning home to whatever terrible apartment he currently lives in, staring silently at a spinning microwave meal, mindlessly eating, and passing out—occasionally with the help of a cheap boxed wine. When did he become so complacent? </p><p>Complacent isn’t quite the word for it. He still sits on the precipice of returning to couch surfing and rummaging through the dumpsters behind restaurants; with little savings and a now insecure job, the threat is all the more immediate. No, he is not so much complacent as unthinking. Uncaring. When was it, he thinks, that he lost all the empathy in his soul for other people? </p><p>At these times he thinks about Valjean’s daughter, unwillingly so. When Valjean is prone to rambling—a rare and alarmingly intoxicating affair—he often talks exclusively about Cosette. To an outsider like himself, one would think the girl is a saint. Valjean goes on about her success in school, her extracurriculars, her volunteering. A rising junior in high school, high test scores, a prestigious university in her future, already set for success. It makes Javert seethe. </p><p>Had he known nothing of the origins of Valjean’s goddaughter, he would brush off the mention of her with no qualms. But to be told she came from nothing and was lifted to triumph over it—the thought fills him with a bitterness in his mouth he cannot seem to shake. That a child that came from a mother like that could be swept away from her horrid foster home—that no struggle was required of her—</p><p>His train of thought stops at that point. Since that final conversation with Valjean it has churned in his stomach like a stormy sea, turned his convictions to nothing but foam. It sickens him now that he would find himself resentful of a girl—a child—who had escaped abuse. Now he only thinks of her each time he unwittingly reaches into his memory for how he could have become like this. </p><p>The days drag on without official word on the department’s budget or his position. He waits in torturous silence as his coworkers gossip again, and waits for the next time he can go out for a cigarette. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When he finally fishes his pack and lighter from his bag, Javert is confronted with his last cigarette. He sighs heavily, leaning forward on the park bench and lighting up. His hair feels too tight in his bun, his joints ache, his back screams at him. The birds are too loud in the trees, the dull roar of the tourists feels like nails in his head. Every part of him feels so compromised; his flesh could be melting off of him in the summer heat like rotting meat for how disgusting he feels in body and mind. </p><p>Someone sits on the bench next to him. Had he the energy, he could have screamed at whoever would decide to sit far too close to a complete stranger. </p><p>But this is no stranger, he realizes as he turns wearily to Valjean. Worse than a stranger, he thinks. </p><p>“Hey,” Valjean says. Everything about him is casual, but by this time Javert can see the cracks in his mask. Valjean is steeped in worry, approaching him like an animal he might scare off. </p><p>Rather than grace him with a response, Javert takes a long drag, wishing he could crumble away like the steadily disappearing cigarette between his fingers. </p><p>“I heard about the proposed cuts,” Valjean says. Javert gives him a questioning look, and he looks off, sheepish. “I’ve got some contacts,” he says simply. </p><p>Before he can stop himself, Javert’s head is in his hands as he sits, hunched over. The takeout box in Valjean’s lap does not escape his notice. He wants to slap it onto the ground, but decides against it. </p><p>“Do I look like a charity case,” Javert mutters into his palms. </p><p>“It’s not charity,” Valjean says. “Just a gift.”</p><p>The sentiment stirs in Javert no anger. He only reacts to it with nothingness, a void of silence. He can feel nothing, say nothing, do nothing. He can’t even muster the courage to pull out his wallet to offer payment; he knows Valjean will leave it either way. After a moment, waiting with no response, Valjean stands back up, leaving the box in the empty space beside Javert. </p><p>He stares at the takeout box, hours after it has undoubtedly gone cold, sitting on his tiny kitchen table. By the time he decides to open it, he can’t bring himself to microwave it. Still, the étouffée is indescribably delicious; it tastes like only the best of home cooked meals. The sensation is that of a simultaneous display of love on his tongue and a miserable aching in his heart. Thinking of what Valjean came from, incarcerated so young and forced to claw his way up, he would assume his heart would grow cold and hard. Like Javert. But the food, cold as it is, only feels comfortingly warm in his mouth. The taste of a self-taught cook who, despite everything, came out the other side with tenderness in all he does. </p><p>He eats the entire box and sits, mind blank, before standing and retrieving his car keys. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The night air still has traces of warmth, simply from the humidity clinging to Javert’s skin. Still, a chill manages to come over him from the wind swept up from the river, a wind which is nearly loud enough to cover the distant sound of his name being yelled. </p><p>Valjean. Of course Valjean is here tonight. Javert’s first reaction is to laugh, to laugh hysterically at the universe’s dogged insistence that he be tortured to no end. The second is how odd it is to see Valjean—though this is not the first time—like this, with his white curls no longer constrained in his bandana. Somehow there is understanding in his expression—horrified, panicked understanding. He wants terribly to laugh at that too, but nothing seems to come out as they stare at one another, mute. </p><p>Valjean speaks to him slowly, fearful he might pull the proverbial trigger. An irritating response, but Javert can consider it fair enough, given that he stands precariously at the edge of the Mississippi. He doesn’t remember going to sit in his car. He doesn’t care that Valjean is driving his car, that he asks him where he lives. He isn’t bothered that he comes up into his apartment. He can’t seem to care so much about anything except that Valjean has extricated him from a decision that was his right. Now that the option is removed, Javert is unsure what to feel; so, he feels nothing. </p><p>There is no coercion in the decision. Valjean tells him he knows that it will be bad, but he would at least be physically safe—from himself, but Valjean chooses not to specify that fact. Valjean will take him and pick him up, make sure everything is in order with his job and apartment. All he can focus on for a time are Valjean’s hands, so calloused and strong from years of chopping vegetables and lifting bags of flour. He wonders still how they remained so kind.</p><p>By some miracle he agrees, they are back in the car, and he is at the front desk of the nearest hospital. None of it truly feels real until he finds himself sitting alone in a hospital bed, robbed of his laced shoes. </p><p>The week spent there is of no help other than the blunt utility of preventing Javert from killing himself. That is the only thing he cannot begrudge it for. He speaks of none of it when Valjean, true to his word, picks him up at the hospital. This car ride is utterly similar to the ride back from the river in appearance. Entirely silent, palpably awkward. Valjean is kind, far kinder than he should be, than Javert deserves. The difference this time, as Javert waves him off, is that he suddenly feels he should give an attempt, however imperfect, however insurmountable, to earn the right. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Therapy is one of the most exhausting things Javert has undertaken—the sentiment speaks volumes given the rest of his life. He hates it. Dredging up the depths of his emotions is like dislodging an old weed from the ground; the root goes deeper than expected, a network of interlocking traumas and learned behaviors that refuse to come up without a heated struggle. It is painful, but he is alive; for now, that will have to be enough. </p><p>Just as confusing as his own mind is his sudden association with Valjean. Not just in the context of work—he is now at the tail end of his paid medical leave before he will return to the office. To the contrary, their interactions now take place solely outside of work and exclusively at Javert’s apartment, mostly in the doorway. Against any protests Valjean has wrestled his way inside several times now, striking up conversation and pushing an increasing number of baked goods onto him. Treacherously, he often finds himself looking forward to his visits. Others, he has little energy to even answer the door. Valjean offers his kindness all the same, frustratingly. </p><p>It is one of those nights when he hears a knock on the door—several light, quick raps on the wood that ring out in his lifeless apartment. He stands in his bathroom with his hands poised over his hair. His bun is halfway falling out as he turns, shuffling out in his bathrobe. Valjean has come at late hours before, but never this long after dark. A glance at the clock before he reaches the door—eleven o’clock. Narrowing his eyes, he prepares himself to, politely as he can manage, decline whatever tin of sweets Valjean has to offer this time. </p><p>Unlocking the deadbolt and the myriad of other safeguards on the door, a harsher than intended admonishment starts to fall off his tongue. “Valjean, today isn’t the da-“</p><p>He stops, staring at the teenage girl standing outside his door and failing to process anything but the familiar glass container filled with muffins in her hands. </p><p>“Hi,” she says. “Sorry it’s so late, sir.” She sounds not very apologetic, but assured in herself as she extends a hand. He takes it, giving a weak handshake. </p><p>“You’re… not Valjean,” Javert says. Stupidly, he quickly realizes.  </p><p>“Cosette,” she says, returning his limp handshake with a firm grip. “Papa fell asleep while he was waiting for these to cool and I thought I would… well,” she pauses, almost wincing. “I wanted to let him to get some sleep.”</p><p>Concern hits Javert like ice cold water down his neck. He wants to ask after Valjean, wants to fix his hair or tighten his robe, wants to clean up the view of his apartment behind him. But Cosette is speaking before he can do much of anything. All he can hope to do is listen, to focus too intently on how much—though they aren’t related by blood—Cosette looks like Valjean. Not so much that they have the same face, but her eyes have the same glint, the same strong stance on the ground. </p><p>“He bakes when he’s stressed,” Cosette goes on. “You probably knew that-“ He did not. “-since the two of you seem so close-“ They are? “-So I figured all this was over him getting worked up about you-“ Of course he is. “-And papa doesn’t really have any other friends—that I’ve seen anyway.” </p><p>She scrutinizes him then, more fully than when he first opened the door. “You weren’t what I expected,” she says, quite bluntly. Just as Javert opens his mouth to say that he did not expect her visit in the first place, she starts again. </p><p>“But anyway. I don’t mean to intrude or anything coming here, I just wanted to make sure you got your-“ she looks down at the tupperware, uncertain, “-muffins. You clearly mean a lot to him, even if he won’t say it. He doesn’t do this with everyone, if that’s what you were thinking.” Her tone takes a serious edge that keeps Javert’s mouth fully shut as her eyes lock with his. “I also just wanted to meet you and make sure you take care of him. He never talks to me about things, so I’m glad you can be that person.” Again she looks him over, nods her head in approval, and pushes the container into his hands. “Have a good night, Mr. Javert.”</p><p>“…Just Javert is fine,” he says weakly as Cosette already walks to the stairwell. </p><p>He looks down at the muffins in his hands, a strange satisfaction sitting with him as he thinks of Valjean safely sleeping under Cosette’s watch. He thinks in that moment that he may very much like Valjean’s daughter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Un voleur solitaire est triste à nourrir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is difficult for Javert to take his mind from the pile of empty tupperware stacked neatly on the countertop. He sits anxiously on his old, uncomfortable couch and tries to resist the urge to clean them again in some manic attempt at distraction. He does not move. It would not provide distraction enough. </p><p>In his lap sits his phone, volume maxed out but still sitting silently. His thoughts, though, must be loud enough for the entire building to hear. Two weeks have passed since he has heard a word from Valjean. After spending hours looking at his last text—<em> Had a great time tonight, see you soon!— </em>Javert closed the messages. There’s only so long that he can stand to look at the responses, repeatedly asking him to come pick up his damn tupperware with nothing in return. Now he stares at the blackened screen, trying to ignore his warped reflection. </p><p>Panic sits in him like a crouching tiger, ready to pounce with its full force at any moment. He wonders, agonizes over if this is his doing. Navigating a friendship with Javert of all people is nothing but a hardship for Valjean. But, surely Valjean would have turned him away far sooner if he hated his company. Surely talking him down from the brink was the worst of it. And it is an admittedly slow process, seeing Valjean as a new man and acknowledging that odd change in himself. And, of course, Valjean is not obligated to answer his every call; the man deserves his space, friendship or no. Even so, it feels uncharacteristic, worrying, to see read receipts and only silence in response. </p><p>It is no secret that Valjean has struggled with Cosette’s absence. The space in his life where she once was feels hollow; the fact is obvious to anyone close to him. Javert muses that he may be the only person close enough. Valjean thinks Javert has not taken notice, but he underestimates his willingness to follow through on a hunch. Regardless of Valjean’s behavior, there is evidence enough to draw from. He now lives alone, has tightened his hours spent in the food truck, has been baking pastries almost compulsively from stress, and has, most recently, avoided Javert like a thief evades the law. In spite of it, he hopes the lack of contact is his own fault. </p><p>There are several reasons he is hesitant to call at this particular moment. The first is that it is midnight, and not everyone is as predisposed towards insomnia as himself. The second is that he knows Valjean will pick up. His fear is to force himself upon an unwilling Valjean, a man who would give away his entire wallet without a moment’s hesitation to a stranger. If he is in any way uncomfortable with Javert’s attentions, he will never say. So Javert will muster any patience he has, for Valjean has too much patience for his own good. </p><p>The hour hits on his wall clock. Midnight. </p><p>Something in the sound of it, the marker of yet another hour, stirs his chest. And at that same moment, the chime of his phone startles him so that the phone falls from his lap and onto the floor. By the time he retrieves it, the name on the screen is not what he had hoped, and certainly not what he had expected. </p><p>‘<em>hey javert! sorry to bother you but i haven’t heard as much as i normally do from papa. have you seen him lately? just want to make sure he’s doing okay<br/></em><em>just realized how late i’m texting, sorry, i keep forgetting about the time difference’</em></p><p>Javert stares but for a few moments before his thumbs are typing faster than he can think, so fast he cannot contemplate how easy it has become for him to lie. </p><p><em> ‘Cosette, I plan to see him tomorrow, and will of course inform you if anything is wrong. Nothing to worry about I’m sure.<br/></em> <em>Hope you are enjoying your studies.’</em></p><p>And then his body is again moving faster than his mind, grabbing his jacket, tucking a stack of tupperware under his arm, and slamming the apartment door behind him. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The porch light is not on as Javert stumbles through Valjean’s overgrown yard, knuckles rapping on the door without restraint. No answer. He pounds on the door again, any veneer of politeness shed in favor of shouting his name through the wood. Only after the third increasingly loud knock does he hear the bolt unlock and see the door slowly open. </p><p>Valjean is not a young man. It always seems strange to think of him as anything but spry, despite the toll of both being a small business owner and having been to prison not once, but twice. The evidence is there on his head, hair prematurely white to the tips. Yet he always carries himself like a young upstart, unafraid and poised. </p><p>That is why Javert almost physically recoils at the sight of him. Valjean’s eyes are the first thing he fixates on, sunken, red as if he’s been crying, lacking the luster of life so characteristic of him. The rest, as his eyes travel down, is nothing better. He wears an apron which does a poor job of containing the spread of flour all along his sweatshirt, some of which reaches his face. Valjean nearly slumps—<em> slumps </em>—against the door and regards him warily. His expression is somber, resigned as he speaks. </p><p>“Hey,” Valjean says. “Did you call?”</p><p>Any preconceived quips about the tupperware fall out of his mind, leaving it a blank void as he stares. </p><p>“Javert?” He looks nervous now under Javert’s scrutiny, eyes darting as if there is something to hide behind him. </p><p>“If I had called,” Javert says, “you would have said everything was fine.”</p><p>“Well, I-“</p><p>“Valjean,” he says, cutting through the excuse on his lips. “I’m coming in.” A statement of fact rather than a question. The color drains from Valjean’s already pallor face as he barrels past him into the house, shoving the stack of tupperware into Valjean’s hands. </p><p>The kitchen, just past the front door, is in a state as baffling as Valjean himself, stopping Javert in his tracks. What free counter space there is hides under the cover of flour and is flanked by racks and containers filled with baked goods. It doesn’t escape him that they are all of Cosette’s favorites. The oven is running and several balls of dough rest on the counter; clearly, Valjean had no intention of calling in for the night, late as it is. There is no music playing as is typical of Valjean’s kitchens, always so full of life. This kitchen feels as if it is ambling towards death, slow, painful, desperate. </p><p>Behind him Valjean follows somewhat sheepishly. He brushes past him then, setting Javert’s empty containers aside and crouching down to peer through the oven door. It looks absurdly easy for him to simply topple over onto the floor, weighed down by a lack of sleep. </p><p>“And what is all this meant for?” </p><p>He doesn’t answer, only leaning his head forward as his hands weakly clutch the oven door handle. It is as though he is bowed in prayer over a loaf of bread of all things. </p><p>“Valjean,” Javert says, striding forward and grabbing him by the elbow. He winces under the touch, and Javert makes it his every effort to soften his face as he locks eyes with Valjean. “Come sit, please.”</p><p>“But-“</p><p>“I will take it from the oven. Now sit.”</p><p>And with that Valjean is seated listlessly at the kitchen counter, apron forgone but still speckled with flour. Only then does Javert begin to fully size him up, standing on the other side of the counter as if interviewing a suspect. </p><p>“How long has this been going on?” He evades his gaze. “When was the last time you slept?” Javert asks more pointedly. </p><p>“Ah... a couple hours last night? I’m not sure.” Valjean looks past him then. “Could you take it out of the oven now?”</p><p>“If it’ll make you pay attention to the fact that I’m trying to help you,”Javert snaps, “by all means.” The words come out harsher than intended, but they seem to hit the mark, and Valjean nods, looking down at the chocolate croissants in front of him like a scolded child. </p><p>As he searches for oven mitts, Javert continues, growing more annoyed at what is certainly an unorthodox tantrum from Valjean. “Your daughter texted me asking about you. Even <em> she </em>could see this halfway across the country.” Something in Valjean’s posture stirs at the mention of Cosette, and when Javert looks up with a loaf of bread in his hands, his face is more miserable than ever. “I covered for you, of course,” he says, setting the loaf down. </p><p>“What did you say?” Valjean croaks. </p><p>“That you were fine and if anything were wrong I would tell her.” </p><p>Valjean stares at him, fear building in his eyes. It’s the kind of fear, Javert recognizes, that animals exude when they know they will die. “And what will you tell her?”</p><p>“I hope not to tell her anything unless it’s warranted,” Javert says slowly. “Is it?”</p><p>Hesitation sits on his expression until he yields, his head going into his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. </p><p>In that moment Javert feels utterly adrift. Valjean has always been a steady anchor, a guiding lighthouse through his recovery. Now he looks as if he is a sailor ready to blindly crash his boat upon the rocks. Anxiety grips Javert; he is so unsure, for he does not know how to be a beacon after being so lost at sea. And so, Javert lets the silence hang between them until he can stand it no longer. </p><p>“When is the last time you ate?” Javert asks. </p><p>No answer. His stomach drops.</p><p>“When?” he asks, this time more venomously. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Valjean says again. </p><p>“I-“ Javert stops. “I swear to God,” he says, swinging around to open the fridge. He finds nearly empty shelves; a few eggs, butter, chilling dough, buttermilk. Pivoting back to Valjean, he stares daggers into him before opening up the cabinets. They, too, are starkly bare, containing only baking supplies. Javert exhales sharply. </p><p>“I’m not hungry,” Valjean mumbles. Javert barks out something approximating a laugh, harsh and halted. He does not think he has ever seen Valjean so petulant; it catches him off guard.</p><p>“Alright,” he says, halfway between a laugh and a growl. “Fine.” And he is out the door before he can look at Valjean’s reaction. </p><p>It is nearly one in the morning, not an optimal time to find an open grocery store. Pharmacy, it is. </p><p>Javert cannot cook to save his life, and cannot recall a time that he has ever cooked for anyone other than himself. He stares at the picked-over shelves of kitchen necessities and settles on what he knows he can cobble together, shoving several things into the shopping basket. When he throws the plastic bags into his passenger seat, it is with more anger than necessary, and he turns directly back to the house. </p><p>Red beans and rice is something of a comfort food for Javert. It might be the only thing he knows how to make outside of microwave-ready fare, a fact that has only horrified Valjean. The only things he can capably put together are the least expensive and most filling things possible. Only because that is what his mother taught him to make for himself while she was off working. He can distantly remember it, counting change he found on the street and saving until he could buy a bag of rice to last the month. Food has never been a pleasure for Javert; it is a tool for survival. And tonight, he will pull Valjean up by the scruff of his neck to survive, whether he would like to or not. </p><p>When he enters through the door again, Valjean looks as if he didn’t expect him to return. Confusion and shock replace the misery from before, widening his red eyes and lifting him from where he was slumped over the counter. Without a word Javert begins to clear a space on the stovetop, retrieving a pot and setting the rice to boil. He raids Valjean’s spice cabinet and then sets to work on the beans. Out of the corner of his eye he can make out Valjean watching with a wary expression. </p><p>The motions of it are familiar, if unfamiliar in their setting. He knows he is the furthest thing from an adept cook, and is more than likely to embarrass himself in front of the professional chef behind him, but none of it seems to matter. It is quiet and the room feels empty but for the growing smells of spices from the stove. The amounts are undoubtedly wrong, and the dish is missing additions that might make it more tolerable, but soon he is serving a bowl full of red beans, topped with a helping of rice. With a clatter, he deposits the bowl and a spoon in front of Valjean. </p><p>“Now eat,” he says, not unkindly, but with a hint that his words are not merely a suggestion.</p><p>Though he had expected Valjean to argue, he sits with a dumbstruck look on his face, as if Javert has sprouted a second head. Mutely he looks between Javert and the food in front of him, before taking the spoon in his fingers. Javert stands and watches, more nervously than he would like, with his arms crossed as Valjean takes the first bites. </p><p>The tears are like a lightning strike, absent one moment and everywhere in a flash. Javert watches with horror as Valjean swallows, takes a shaking breath, and eats another spoonful, tears spilling down his cheeks all the while. </p><p>“God-“ Javert says, raising his hands to take the bowl away. “Is it that bad?”</p><p>Valjean shakes his head, snapping it back and forth and pulls the bowl closer, eating more heaping spoonfuls. Javert can only stare—he does not know how to behave in moments like these, where kindness might be necessary. Were he Valjean, he would offer a comforting hand on his back, soothing words of solace. Instead he watches Valjean weep as he eats his under-seasoned red beans and rice at two o’clock in the morning. </p><p>Dutifully, Valjean finishes the bowl; it looks as though he can barely lift the spoon now, the exertion of the fit beginning to claim him. Gingerly, Javert takes the empty bowl and deposits it in the sink, not taking his eyes off Valjean. </p><p>“Why don’t you get to sleep,” Javert says, but halfway through Valjean begins to slump again over the counter, intending to do just that. Making quick strides back to him, Javert furrows his brow. “Not there. Jesus, Valjean.”</p><p>It is inevitably an invasion of his personal space, but Javert cannot bring himself to care as he lifts Valjean up under his arm. Guiding him in the direction where he assumes the bedroom to be, he does everything in his power to keep Valjean upright. </p><p>Valjean’s bedroom is, perhaps unsurprisingly, sparse. It seems as if he leaves himself no leeway for comfort; the bed looks old and small, the decor bland. He has little time though to study the room any more carefully while helping Valjean fumble out of his sweater. He consciously ignores the flash of old, faded ink on Valjean’s back as he lifts his arms. Everything about this is too close, too deep into Valjean’s life, a place that he has little right to take residence in as it is. Now it feels as though he has barged into something unspeakably private, infiltrating a private funeral. He does not let himself contemplate it, how badly he wants to somehow slot himself into Valjean’s life without giving him pain. </p><p>Soon he collapses onto the bed, still in his jeans and undershirt. It’s only after tugging the blanket from underneath him that Javert takes notice of how thin Valjean looks. The gauntness in his face extends to his frame; he looks weak, as if he has shriveled in on himself like a dying leaf. His lack of exercise and food is painfully plain. Again he does not allow himself to dwell on any thoughts, covering Valjean and closing the door silently behind him. </p><p>Walking into the kitchen he sighs, staring at the mess around him, before rolling up his sleeves and setting to work. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sunlight charges relentlessly through his window when Valjean wakes. The act of merely squinting seems herculean, and his head seems to pound as if sleeping has, ironically, made everything all the worse. He barely even remembers dragging himself to his bed, and registers dimly that he is still in most of his clothes. Only when he sees his sweatshirt folded neatly on the bedside table does he remember Javert. The clock on the table is already past noon. </p><p>The old wood floor creaks beneath his feet as he stumbles through the hallway, still shedding the last vestiges of sleep from his gait. Dread is inevitable, thinking of the catastrophe that waits for him in the kitchen. It is not as if he minds cleaning, quite the opposite. But still, the prospect of the clanging of dishes and spray of water is not entirely appealing at the moment. </p><p>These thoughts of unease are wiped from him, the air stolen out of his chest as he stands in the kitchen doorway. The countertops are spotless, the pastries and bread are gone, a neat stack of mixing bowls sit in the drying rack, the dishwasher light is on. Valjean stares numbly, suddenly drawn to the fridge.</p><p>This, too, has been cleaned up, the mess of papers and old grocery lists and coupons now precisely organized. An old note from Cosette, likely buried under the layers of leaflets, stands proudly in its own designated corner. ‘<em> Love you papa! Have a nice day :) -C’ </em></p><p>Before he can lose himself in the loops of her handwriting, he opens the fridge door. There was little to begin with in terms of what needed cleaning, but a single tupperware dish sits on the shelf. Dirt cheap, under-seasoned, homemade red beans and rice. </p><p>It flashes in his mind then, the image of a huge pot of it and seven children waiting with bowls in hand. </p><p>The sound of the front door opening startles him enough to slam the fridge door shut and run into the entryway with energy he did not know he still possessed. In his mind, the picture of the worst is painted over by Javert standing there, his arms laden with takeout bags. </p><p>“Oh,” Valjean says. Something flips in his chest, knocks the breath out of him. </p><p>“Ah,” Javert says, shutting the door behind him with his heel. “You’re up.”</p><p>At that point Valjean can smell it, the unmistakable scent of biscuits and gravy. “How did you-“</p><p>“I texted Cosette,” Javert says, already walking past him and unloading onto the countertop. “She said this was your favorite.” The amount of food he starts to take out is far too much for two people, but Valjean assumes he has little room to decline it. </p><p>And soon enough, a plate filled with breakfast foods and fruit is shoved in front of him while Javert puts on a pot of coffee. He cannot seem to quite look at him but for short, furtive glances, checking on him with the smallest trace of worry. He stares out the kitchen window as he speaks, only the sound of brewing coffee filling the space. </p><p>“I hope you don’t mind me sleeping on the couch,” Javert says. “It wouldn’t have been safe for me to drive without sleeping. Oh, and I took the bread and things to the shelter, I thought it would be best, but I-“</p><p>“It’s fine,” Valjean stops him, stops him before tenderness can truly overtake him. “Sit down.”</p><p>Javert gives him a cautious look before pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting across from him at the tiny kitchen table. </p><p>“Eat,” he says. The harshness in his voice is near absent as he nods to Valjean’s plate and takes a sip from his mug. Valjean opts not to contest it this time. </p><p>“Thank you,” Valjean says between forkfuls of biscuit. “…for everything,” he adds. </p><p>Something odd crosses Javert’s face before his mouth twists into an apologetic smirk. “Hope that’s better than what I gave you last night.” And suddenly his face is falling, regret coming over it like storm clouds covering the sun. It is the only indication Valjean is given that he’s crying. </p><p>With a quick hand he wipes away the errant tears and continues eating. “It was good,” Valjean says quietly. “Thanks for saving the leftovers.”</p><p>The worry does not leave Javert’s face as he stares, watching Valjean eat as if he fears he may do something drastic. Perhaps it is not an unreasonable assumption, given his behavior.  At the very least he stops himself from crying, eating without complaint. </p><p>Valjean has been alone for so many years. Yes, he has had Cosette, but he hides so much of himself for her sake, to give her a normal life. His family is long gone, Father Myriel years since passed; he can be Jean Valjean with no one. If he is graced with kindness it is never to <em> him, </em>never with the knowledge of him, the mistakes and the anger and the selfishness still gripping his heart. The horror of telling Cosette the truth haunts him, keeps him up at night and snatches away any hope of respite. The ghost of himself at 25 still haunts him, prodding him with wishes to keep Cosette for himself, do anything to stop her from seeing that boy. It makes him too sick to eat, too heartbroken to work. </p><p>Javert is different; he knows him perhaps more intimately than any other person, every inch of his past thoroughly researched if not witnessed by him. The thought is terrifying, comforting. It’s a reminder of how isolated he may always be. Yet it’s a comfort, for Javert is here, breaking into the grave of his own making to say that he will lay down in the dirt with him until he is ready to lift himself up again. He wonders if Javert feels just as alone, is just as afraid of himself. Though, it’s a silly question to ask when Javert was on the verge of something all the more terrible not even a year ago.</p><p>He looks at Javert again, briefly meeting his eye as he nibbles at his toast, sips at his coffee. The breakfast nook suddenly feels full again, the kitchen no longer so barren. The fridge is brimming with what he can only describe as love, and Javert is settled in the chair across from him, studying him with the careful concern of a friend most dear. </p><p>“Now don’t start with the tears again,” Javert says, only half-jokingly, as Valjean smiles, dabbing at the corner of his eye. He brings another forkful to his mouth, eyes finally adjusting to the sun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Je dresse la table de ma nouvelle vie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Javert is unsure when it started, the insistent warmth in his chest. Regardless of when, he feels it now with such a frequency and ferocity that its power is liable to knock him off his feet when it hits. He feels it now, flickering and troublesome as he follows Valjean through the old door frame. They’ve been given free reign by the real estate agent to explore the building after a brief tour. Valjean inspects the kitchen closely, imagining how he might fix it up and musing aloud about the expenses required. </p><p>Following suit, Javert looks at the kitchen. Some of the appliances are old—downright vintage—but the space is clean, well suited to the restaurant’s size. He can picture Valjean cooking in it, wrapped up in his bandana, his shirtsleeves rolled, and wearing an expression of total focus. It stirs something disquieting in him; he stamps it out as they move on to the upstairs apartment. </p><p>The upper floor, a full two bedroom flat, is just as old, if not more grand, than the restaurant itself. Rich wood floors run throughout, crown molding and old fireplaces and everything emblematic of New Orleans. A small iron-wrought balcony hangs off the back, overlooking a small courtyard; Valjean nearly swoons over the thing. </p><p>“It’s small, but it’ll be perfect for an herb garden,” he says, looking out over the little patch of green. Javert can’t bring himself to look at it if it means looking away from Valjean’s face. Happiness suits him, far too much. Valjean turns to him then, smile so pleased, so hopeful. Javert pivots back to the door. </p><p>“Let’s see the rest of the upstairs, then.”</p><p>He cannot, for the life of him, justify why he agreed to manage Valjean’s restaurant. The venture is absurd; Javert has done everything in life to avoid risk. Now, he will be a partner in opening a <em> restaurant </em>, for God’s sake. There is nothing more ridiculous he can think of, but each time he catches a glimpse of Valjean’s smile, he is proven so horrendously wrong. As if there were a choice to begin with. </p><p>In all fairness, this is partly Javert’s fault to begin with. Convincing Valjean that it was the time to return to a stable business seemed a logical step as he climbed toward normalcy again. Yes, of course he would look into the health department paperwork for him. Of course he would help scout locations, of course he could assist in testing recipes for the new menu. Javert was managing the business before he could even call himself a partner. And soon he was giving a two-week notice for his beloved job, off to pick out produce suppliers. It was difficult to resist, when all of it felt so deeply right. </p><p>“What a lovely little kitchen,” Valjean says. </p><p>“Too little?” Javert says, wary. They stand on either side of the narrow island in the middle of the room. And it is little, nothing compared to the full range in the restaurant below, or even the modest space in his current house. </p><p>“The window is so nice, though!” He gestures to the opening in the wall, providing a clear view of the living room. “It makes it feel bigger than it is,” he says, taking a closer look at the countertop material. “Besides, it’s just for me.”</p><p>The reminder sends an odd wave of sickness over Javert, and he grabs the edge of the counter in an effort to remain upright. He swallows. “Still,” he says, “you deserve the best.”</p><p>“And I like it as it is,” Valjean says. “I could maybe even have a hanging pot rack from the ceiling.”</p><p>Javert nods, following him stiffly from room to room as Valjean discusses what furniture he can bring and what will need to be donated or sold. For the most part, Javert stays silent, murmuring affirmations and taking measurements of the rooms. The building is old, in need of some minor repairs, but nothing structural jumps out as cause for concern. Javert reminds Valjean to leave that assessment to the inspector, and he easily agrees, still going on about how he might arrange the couch and where the plants would get the best sunlight. </p><p>“Oh,” Valjean suddenly says. “Your office.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Javert rises from the ground, having measured across the wall of the second bedroom. “There’s an office downstairs.”</p><p>“It’s a broom closet. And I would rather it be the break room for the staff. You’ll need something else, more private.”</p><p>“That’s not-“</p><p>“We could make the second bedroom an office,” Valjean suggests. Javert inhales at the word—<em> we. </em> “Maybe have a Murphy bed for when Cosette’s home.”</p><p>“Well,” Javert says, “won’t you need an office?”</p><p>“My office may as well be the kitchen, and you’ll need a space of your own here, right?”</p><p>Something catches in Javert’s throat. He cannot speak, and any capability of language seems to have left him entirely. Valjean stares at him then, an odd look that seems to bore through him. And the moment is gone, the property agent knocking on the wall, calling for Valjean. </p><p>A nod from Valjean and they go off to discuss some finer details, and Javert is left alone in the room meant to be his office. Valjean’s office. Their office? </p><p>Once the two are out of his range of hearing, he steps back, tries to imagine it from the vantage of the doorframe. Javert is no interior decorator, but he can picture how Valjean might fill the room, his old wooden writing desk and a few chairs, cookbooks and novels filling the shelves built into the wall. </p><p>More than likely, Valjean will enlist Javert in painting the wall some hideously bright color; he will assist him wordlessly, caring only for the smile a sunflower yellow will put on Valjean’s face. Javert will sit there in the office, going through payroll and tips while Valjean cooks in the kitchen, distant music and smells filling the apartment. Interrupting his work, Valjean will stride in and slip a bite of a hush puppy into his mouth, ask him how it tastes. Instead of a response, Javert will crane up from his chair to kiss him, unhurried and sweet. </p><p>Javert blinks, staring at the empty room. </p><p>“Javert.”</p><p>Hearing his name sends him reeling, jumping as he catches hold of the door frame. </p><p>“Ah, sorry,” Valjean says worriedly. His hand is on Javert’s shoulder, far too gentle and all the worse for it. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but I think we’re ready to wrap up.”</p><p>“Right, right,” Javert says, stiffening. Frustratingly, he does not have the courage to wilt away from the touch. He savors it, lingering in the warmth of Valjean’s palm before moving. “Sorry.”</p><p>Valjean gives him an apologetic smile before going back to the stairwell, his footfalls echoing through the empty apartment. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The paperwork was simple enough—though it was a moment of panic for Valjean. He felt as if he were standing at a cliff’s edge, having foolishly convinced himself it was suddenly safe to jump. Even after a disastrous attempt in the past. But Javert was a calming presence, all business and professionalism as his signature joined Valjean’s without hesitation on the property documents. He’s felt the same at every step in this process. All the uncertainty and the vague misty shape of the future have felt suddenly solid with Javert standing by his side. As any manager should, he thinks. </p><p>Valjean stands in the middle of his kitchen, wringing his hands in a dish towel as he surveys the room, listening to the increasing patter of rain outside. The kitchen is a bit emptier than it normally would be; bubble wrap and cardboard boxes litter the edges of the room. Half the house is packed at this point, but he’s cleared enough boxes from the area that he and Javert should have no issue eating dinner. A celebratory dinner, in honor of the closing earlier today. Since he was working with a half-packed kitchen, he settled for something simple, appropriate, though he’s undoubtedly sure that red beans and rice is enough. Javert has never been picky. </p><p>These past weeks have been, and continue to be, a whirlwind of stress as they piece together what will become Valjean’s new restaurant and home. An exciting time, but nail-biting to be sure. Valjean can never seem to shake the anxious energy from himself these days and, lately, it feels as if it has inadvertently spread to Javert. His typical marble-like facade has cracked somewhat ever since the real estate tours, revealing a bundle of frayed nerves. Their conversations are clipped, he overthinks decisions, and he can never quite meet Valjean’s eye. Even with all his confidence at the closing, he was acting oddly, staring off into space. </p><p>Perhaps the gravity of reality has begun to weigh on him—perhaps he has second thoughts. Valjean smooths his apron, hoping the dinner will calm any fears either have as they embark on what may be the most reckless decision of either of their lives. A reckless decision for the better, he hopes. </p><p>A knock at the door, and Valjean springs up at the sound. Freeing himself from his apron and folding the dish towel, he strides to the door, hoping Javert managed to avoid the downpour. Javert is flush when he finds him in the shelter of the patio, holding a bottle of wine tightly and close, as if fearing it’ll slip through his fingers. A fair assumption with the rain droplets speckled across his skin. </p><p>Today he looks handsome, still wearing a button up—sans tie—but he’s opted to dress down from his usual trousers with jeans. They look well on him; but, more evidently, he looks healthy. Even with the stress of the business, Valjean has coaxed him into a more regular diet. At the very least, he eats regularly enough at his house to test out recipes, calling them business meetings. Now he stands, admiring the window box filled with flowers with a strange look on his face, and Valjean is reluctant to interrupt him. </p><p>“Hot out?” Valjean finally asks. </p><p>Somehow his face is redder when he looks up, evidently shocked. “Ah—yeah,” Javert says. “Humid, anyway.” His hand goes to the back of his neck, presumably wiping away the sweat under his collar. </p><p>“Well get inside where it’s cool,” Valjean says sympathetically. “You look like you’re about to boil over.”</p><p>Javert scoffs and hands him the bottle, walking into the kitchen with an air of curiosity. His demeanor is somewhat calmer as Valjean follows him and fishes inside a nearby box for the corkscrew. </p><p>“Sorry I only have cups out,” Valjean says, uncorking the bottle. “The wine glasses are packed up already.” </p><p>When Javert gratefully takes a cup, he’s already taking a drink. “It smells amazing in here,” he says, wandering towards the table. </p><p>“Thanks,” Valjean replies. He means it. Serving two bowls, he smiles to himself, thinking almost fondly about the night Javert cooked for him. “It’ll be the first thing on the menu,” he says as he sets their dinners down. An odd look comes across Javert’s face, a sheen in his eye before he thanks Valjean. </p><p>“Cheers,” Valjean says quickly, raising his glass, if only to cut the tension. “To The Lark.” It feels almost stupid to be raising a toast with just the two of them, but, before he can laugh off his own cheek, a smile—almost shy—comes over Javert’s face. He raises his glass to meet Valjean’s with a <em> clink </em>. </p><p>“To The Lark.”</p><p>They eat, the conversation inevitably turning towards business, as per usual these days. Now that the location is locked down, there’s an unending list of things to do, people to call. Grocers, interior decorators, designers, lawyers, waitstaff. None of these things seem to rattle Javert though, the list of priorities in his mind kept orderly as a line of soldiers. Javert had no experience, only knowing the industry from his own unusual perspective. But in spite of it—perhaps <em> because </em> of it—he assured him he would slip into the role through grit and determination alone. It’s been the ethos of his life, after all. The man is notoriously cool under pressure, unbothered by any deterrents in his way, because he has already seen the worst. Survived it. </p><p>But still, something undeniably troubles him as Valjean watches him put away drink after drink. His face is now red not with the New Orleans heat, but with the three glasses, and counting, of Sauvignon Blanc. His plate is empty, leaving an excess of heavy silence between them—interrupted only by the sound of pouring rain outside—as Javert reaches again for the bottle. Valjean himself is flush, nursing his second drink, far from drunk but approaching tipsy. He wants to point out to Javert that he’ll need to drive home, but the moment to bring it up is long gone. </p><p>Valjean regards him warily, swirling his glass as he looks at the boxes stacked in the corner, the empty facade of the fridge. Everything is so different from two years ago, even a year ago. He was once that rock for Javert, then he for Valjean. Now they find themselves in this strange position. Friends, business partners. His mind, prone to wandering as it is, has contemplated other things, impossible things that would make Javert laugh his strange, ugly laugh that Valjean finds unbearably charming. And so, in his contemplations they will inevitably stay. </p><p>Taking a sip of wine, he turns back to Javert. “Have you looked into the liquor license yet, by chance?” Valjean asks. </p><p>“Ha-“ Javert lets out a bark of a laugh. “It’s in the works,” Javert says, slouching back in his chair as he sips at his own glass. “You’d think they would get on with it faster for how much it costs,” he mutters. </p><p>“Well,” Valjean says, “you would know these things best.” He gives Javert a smile. “I trust you with it.” </p><p>Javert’s eyes are locked on him for the briefest of moments before they saunter off, staring instead at the clean plates in front of him. Valjean could swear his face blooms red even further. He looks unhappy, to say the least. Again he wonders—are these second thoughts? Does Javert simply want to tell him that this was all a mistake, that he should hold off on selling the food truck and call the real estate agent immediately? Just as he thinks to ask something he might regret, Javert speaks up. </p><p>“On the subject,” he says, looking at the final mouthful of wine in his cup, “I need to—I <em> should </em> tell you about something.” An agonized, disquieting expression twists his face as he meets Valjean’s gaze again. Guilt tints his eyes, concentrating there and spreading to his every movement as he restlessly drums his fingers on the table. </p><p>Valjean swallows. “What is it?”</p><p>“I just—I’ve been thinking about all this, being business partners. Maybe my feelings have been all mixed up with—with all these changes. But you deserve someone to work with who can respect you and support you professionally—“ Javert stops, pauses, and downs the rest of his drink. He sighs, slurring the edges of his words. “We’re—we’re business partners! And I’ve never been happier, really. But I can’t stop thinking about us being more than that. Being… <em> partners </em>. And I—God.” He puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>It’s hard to say if it’s the haze of alcohol or the disconnected nature of Javert’s ramblings that leaves Valjean as confused and lost for words as he is. He stares blankly at Javert, trying to patch the mismatched thoughts together in his head. </p><p>“You... don’t want to be business partners?” he asks weakly. “I thought we were in this...” he trails off as Javert looks at him between his fingers with wide, pained eyes. “...together,” he finishes. </p><p>“That’s—of course I want—but not like that—well, like that-“ Javert flounders as if waging a battle in his own mind until he suddenly stands. “Listen,” he says, wiping a hand over his face, “maybe this was a terri—a ter—a bad idea. This isn’t appropriate for any workplace, and God knows—you deserve a business partner who doesn’t want to look at you like that and think about kissing you—God I’m practically sexually harassing you right now. I’ll leave.” He looks to the door, then back to Valjean. “This was a bad idea. I’ll be going now.” He walks towards the door, stumbling slightly; whether it’s from the wine or the nerves, Valjean isn’t quite sure. </p><p>Like the late arrival of thunder after lightning, Valjean’s thoughts begin to catch up with his ears, and his body begins to catch up with his thoughts. The word—<em>kissing</em>—is burned into his mind like a hot brand, and it takes him a beat to have the inkling to scramble after Javert. Though, it’s not as if he can go anywhere, drunk as he is. </p><p>Still, Javert is barreling out of the front door, uncaring of the rain beginning to plaster his shirt to his skin as he walks to his car down the darkened street. Valjean shouts after him over the percussion of rainfall, not taking the time to search for an umbrella that’s certainly already packed away. </p><p>“Javert, damn it, you can’t drive right now!” he says, tromping through puddles gathering on the holes in the derelict sidewalk. </p><p>Valjean can barely make out his response as he shouts back. “I’ll sleep it off in my car!” </p><p>“Jesus,” Valjean mutters through gritted teeth. This is the very thing that makes Javert occasionally impossible to work with. He’s stubborn, unyielding when he gets hold of an idea, like a dog unwilling to release the grip of its jaw. Frustrating, that it’s one of the things he loves about Javert most. Even more frustrating that it’s about <em> this </em>of all things.</p><p>He struggles to walk in front of Javert’s path, trying to outstrip his long legs. Javert stops when he finally blocks him, staring at Valjean miserably. </p><p>“Just-“ Valjean plants his feet in the ground, pushing his sopping wet curls out of his eyes. “Just come back inside.“</p><p>Rolling his eyes and throwing up his arms, Javert gestures to his car and yells. “Let me leave, Valjean. I’ll sober up, but I’m not going to—to stick around and make this worse than it already is for you.”</p><p>“What are you <em> talking </em> about?” Valjean cries hoarsely. </p><p>Javert points to himself, volume increasing. “I don’t want to force myself onto you! And I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut! Just let me-“</p><p>Javert, Valjean finds, is far too tall as he tries to pull him down by the back of his head, straining on the tips of his toes. Confusion blankets Javert’s face as he tries to resist, searching Valjean’s eyes before he doggedly pulls him down, his strength winning out. Javert’s lips are wet; everything is wet, come to think of it. The long dripping hair he sinks his fingers into, the soaked shirt that presses against his chest, the tongue that tentatively meets him. </p><p>Just as suddenly as it starts, Javert pulls back with a terrified expression. It looks as if a question is on his lips, and Valjean would rather kiss it away. But instead he shouts, directly in Javert’s face as the rain falls harder than ever. </p><p>“I don’t want you to try to leave me again!”</p><p>The terror doesn’t quite leave his face as Javert nods, slowly and then slower as he leans down again, finally wrapping his arms around Valjean and kissing him back. Even soaked to the bone in the night air, Valjean has never felt more warmth. </p><p>The distribution of towels is awkward, and the negotiation of dry clothes more so. But Javert agrees more easily that, with his state and the time of night, he should sleep at Valjean’s rather than take an overpriced cab back to his apartment. They drink tea, cleaning up the kitchen together in some strange echo of domesticity that feels, at the same time, so foreign yet so uncomplicated. Odder still is that Javert does it all wearing Valjean’s oversized clothes, both too wide and too short on his frame. </p><p>Right as he starts to amble sleepily towards the couch, Valjean takes him by the wrist. He thumbs over the veins there, shyly pulling him with only a fraction of his strength in the direction of the bedroom. This night is different than a year ago. They’re different people than a year ago. Different than a day ago. And the new Valjean is loath to spend another night alone. </p><p>Javert can only follow numbly to the half empty room, pulled naturally as gravity. Valjean lies next to him on the frameless mattress, knowing that Javert helped him pick out the new one himself. It’ll be delivered within the week. He wonders silently how it all got so out of order as he traces the contours of Javert’s cheekbones and the effortless way his hair gathers on the pillow. </p><p>Sleep comes to him like butter melts in a pan; slow, easy, pleasant. The sound of rain and Javert’s even breaths blend into one, roaring together in his ears until he sizzles into nothing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for the wonderful response so far! It's hard for me to respond to comments, but I cherish every single one 💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Les rêves des amoureux sont comme le bon vin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Valjean?” Javert calls, locking the door behind him, only after a moment of fumbling with the old warped wood. </p><p>Chairs are stacked atop tables, and the room smells faintly of cleaning supplies—the floor has been freshly mopped. It’s the reverse of a normally bustling room, filled with conversation and pleasant, savory smells. The Lark is silent now but for the distant, echoing sound of a radio, likely in the kitchen. An old song, some obscure, slow moving big band swing. Javert will never understand why Valjean listens to it; the city is saturated enough with jazz as it is without his contribution to the din that pounds outside, not two blocks from the building. </p><p>The sound grows more stark, an echo from Valjean’s radio, a relic that could have been plucked from a garage eighty years ago. At the entrance to the kitchen that he finds him, blissfully unaware of Javert as he sweeps the floor. He is almost reticent to interrupt him, wishing to enjoy the way he candidly hums to the music and slight, rhythmic sway of his hips. But the fact that he is sweeping at all is enough to convince him to break Valjean’s reverie. </p><p>“Valjean,” Javert says again, exasperated now. He turns around and stops, coughing and looking caught in Javert’s stare, as if he were doing something he ought not to. </p><p>“Ah,” he says, “Home this early?” A flush is on his cheeks as he leans on the broom, and Javert has to keep himself from getting carried away watching his shy smile. “Store wasn’t very busy then?”</p><p>“Why aren’t those kids sweeping up?”</p><p>“Oh… well, I let them off early tonight,” he says evasively. </p><p>“I hired them for a reason, Valjean.”</p><p>“It’s Mardi Gras, for God’s sake! They should have their fun tonight.”</p><p>Javert scoffs, setting his coat and packages neatly on a nearby table. “You and I both know it isn’t Tuesday yet,” he says, scowling. “And Gavroche is nowhere near old enough to drink.”</p><p>At that, Valjean’s most winning smile spreads across his face; a smile Javert knows is on purpose. “Don’t you remember the excitement of it when you were young?”</p><p>“No, I never cared for any of it.”</p><p>“Shocking,” Valjean says placidly. They’ve gravitated towards one another, and Valjean’s hand is beginning to caress his hip. Not insistent, but tender. </p><p>“And you were partying all over the streets, then?” Javert teases. Valjean’s smile falters for a moment, and Javert’s stomach drops as he realizes what he’s said. </p><p>“My… ah. I wasn’t out by the time I turned twenty-one. Can’t really celebrate in prison.”</p><p>“Right,” Javert says, pausing. “God, Valjean, I’m an ass-“</p><p>“No,” Valjean says, looking up at Javert. His expression is thoughtful; try as he might, Javert cannot glean any pain in his eyes. He rubs at Javert’s side, studying him. “It is what it is.”</p><p>“Well,” Javert says, swallowing. “Should we make up for it then?”</p><p>A wry smile returns to Valjean’s lips, and Javert is thankful for it. “And get blackout drunk in the street?” The other hand is on his other side, thumbing at his hip bone, not as prominent as it used to be. Not after abandoning a diet of coffee and cigarettes. </p><p>“I meant we should drink wine in the privacy of our apartment, but whatever you like,” Javert says. </p><p>The hand on his hip trails lower, further back. “Let’s skip the apartment for now and go straight to the wine,” Valjean croons.  </p><p>Javert will, of course, deny him nothing.</p><p>It’s near impossible not to watch Valjean as he unties his apron and releases the mass of curls from his bandana. He hesitates to take his eyes from him as he opens a bottle of wine from the restaurant’s case. Javert knows nothing of wine, but Valjean picks out a suitable choice and pours two generous portions. </p><p>Javert follows him, glass in hand as Valjean puts away the last of his things in the kitchen. It was no doubt a hard and busy night, with all the tourists coming in before spending a night drinking not too far away. But there’s still a spring in Valjean’s step as he returns to Javert, rising on his toes to kiss him. </p><p>The music is slow and ambling as they dance lazily between the tables. An empty bottle of wine sits on the kitchen window, and Valjean mumbles happily about Glenn Miller songs as they sway in one another’s arms. </p><p>Javert often laments that there is only finite language to describe the infinite. The love in his heart, warmly pressed against Valjean, is too much for words. He tries to let it radiate through his touch, in his meandering kisses around his neck. Valjean sighs, holds him just a bit tighter. They’re in no rush, but not hesitant either. Their pace is practiced now; what was once a trickle became a torrent, almost uncontrollable. Now it’s a steady stream, carrying them along with ease. </p><p>It’s with that ease that they find their way up the back stairs that lead up to the apartment, no small amount of stumbling aside. Though the radio is off, the music still echoes in Javert’s head, tinting every touch of Valjean’s hand with tenderness and a certain melody. It takes him far too long to realize it’s only because Valjean is still humming it under his breath, still trying to dance with Javert as they make their way to the bedroom. </p><p>Valjean steers him back, kissing him until he hits the wall, where he can stand on his toes to reach his lips. Javert smiles, extracting himself for a moment to reach for the record player on the bookshelf, picking up where they left off. With the opportunity, Valjean begins to slowly unbutton Javert’s shirt, savoring each button in time with the sweet trumpet notes filling the room. His touch on his bare chest is so warm; everything is pleasant, tilting, fuzzy with alcohol, but also the intoxicating feeling of Valjean’s hands, suddenly moving up to slip through his hair. </p><p>The strength in Valjean’s arms is less restrained than usual when he lowers him onto the bed. He cannot seem to shake the smile from his face as he unceremoniously tosses his clothes aside, and Javert’s eyes move from his lips to the rest of him. His frame is full, healthy, a sight Javert admires as he blindly rummages through the bedside table drawer for a condom. And again those hands are on him, fingers taking him in hand and meandering between his legs. They are thick, calloused, lovely. All the lovelier with the glint of the wedding band.</p><p>Sighs and moans mix with the music as Valjean gently pushes inside. They are flush to one another, and Javert is surrounded by softness beneath him and above him. He cradles Valjean in his arms, clutching the wide span of his back and feeling his hot breath on his neck. The push and pull is as leisurely as their dance; they have all the time in the world in this moment, looking forward to nothing but all the years of marriage—all the years of <em> this— </em>ahead. They are vines intertwined, flavors coming together in a pan. And here Javert can think nothing of the past, only what is here, what is tangible, and what can only be expressed through the kind ear of a friend, the intimate touch of a lover. How strange it is, that he can feel such love without Valjean saying a word. </p><p>In the hours after, drifting into sleep with Valjean in his arms, he feels himself so full of love that he aches with it. Never did he think he could be here, his husband sleeping so peacefully with only him to witness so many secret gifts. His long lashes, the way his chest rises and falls so deeply, the delicate wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. The graceful stretch marks adorning his soft edges. As he blinks ever slower, thinking of the love that has once again made Valjean solid, of the love that has tempered him, he finds it would be impossible for either of them to starve again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for getting to the end! I've put so much heart and effort into this fic, and I've been overjoyed to see people return that love. It's not the longest or most complicated thing, but I love this AU with everything I have. Thank you again to Claire for making this come to life. </p><p>If you liked this fic please consider sending a monetary donation to your local food bank. Now, more than ever, they need help from their communities. Thanks and stay safe out there everyone!</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856943">Je suis heureux à l’idée de ce nouveau destin</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm">TheLifeOfEmm</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
</html>